


Promontory Point

by LivingProof



Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: Backstory, Barnum Worries Too, Buckets of Barnum Angst, Building the Railroad, But maybe not about the right things, Charity Worries, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Male Friendship, Phillip worries, Protective Phillip Carlyle, Running a Circus, Splash of Phillip Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2020-02-28 16:45:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18760408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LivingProof/pseuds/LivingProof
Summary: Most of the circus forgets that Barnum had a long, full life before the big top ever went up. Barnum would prefer to forget most of it too. But, oh, we cannot undo these things we've done.An unwelcome visitor to the circus forces Barnum into an unexpected reckoning. Everyone else is just along for the ride.





	1. Just One More

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for coming along on this ride too. I hope you enjoy it.

The visit is surprising enough to shock Phineas Taylor Barnum into silence, if only for a moment. There are very few things these days that shock him.

 

He is alone in his office – Phillip's office too, but lunch is still hours off so of course the younger man hasn't dragged himself in yet – reviewing the textile invoices, when he hears the knock at the door.

 

He doesn't look up from his papers as he bids entrance. He assumes it must be one of the shyer – or more polite – performers: Constantine or Anne or perhaps Deng. Most of the others, Lettie and Charles especially, will simply barge in as they see fit, slamming the door back no matter how many times he rightly points out that the upper half of the door is glass and _highly fragile but if you want to pick shards out of your hair go right ahead._

 

He recalls a conversation with Anne and WD from the day before – they had promised to let him know if the new material he'd ordered for their costumes would grip the trapeze bars securely enough – and asks, “Is that new fabric going to – ” just as he finally looks up.

 

The words stick in his throat and he freezes, immobilized in his chair.

 

“Phin-ny!” A voice calls out, whiskey over sandpaper, and Barnum sucks in a short breath as the figure shuts the door behind him.

 

“You...” Barnum gapes.

 

“Do mine eyes deceive me, or is this Phineas Taylor Barnum I see before me, in the flesh?” That _voice_ again, from a face aged by bright sun, set with dark eyes and topped by brown hair streaked with gray, above wide shoulders only slightly stooped by years of back-breaking labor.

 

Barnum slowly stands up from his desk, braces himself on its sturdy surface. “You...what are you...”

 

“Quite a place you got here, Phinny!” The man places calloused, blunt fingers on his hips. “Bit bigger than the tents we were used to, eh?”

 

“How...why are...” all Barnum can get out before the office door is shoved open again.

 

“PT, did you see this notice from –” Phillip looks up from the stack of mail he's carrying, question dying on his lips as he takes in the unexpected company. “Oh, my apologies, I didn't realize...” He looks between Barnum and the guest, waiting for an explanation.

 

Barnum works his jaw a few times, but can't manage a word. Phillip decides to take care of the social niceties himself.

 

“Phillip Carlyle, pleasure to meet you. And you are?” He tosses the mail on to his own desk and holds out a hand.

 

The stranger looks Phillip up and down before deliberately taking Phillip's hand. “Right. Mr. Carlyle. Phillip.” He pops that final letter in his mouth, pumps Phillip's hand forcefully. Phillip's eyebrows tic upwards, not enough for most to notice but Barnum sees it, knows it comes out when yet another gala guest has made a comment a shade past acceptable about the circus, or when that snide new lion tamer they've hired on makes a fuss about eating with the rest of the troupe in the mess tent.

 

The man holds Phillip's hand a little too tightly, hangs on a little too long, and Barnum feels his own hands start to clench into fists. Phillip spares him a questioning glance, clearly expecting an interjection from the showman, but Barnum has yet to find his voice or his composure.

 

“I'm sorry, your name was...?” Phillip tries again, years of being punished and scorned for the slightest breach of decorum impossible to ignore.

 

“Of course.” The stranger finally lets go of Phillip's hand, and Barnum lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. “Lucas Harper. Pleasure to make your acquaintance. Phillip.” His wide grin exposes a mouth full of tobacco-yellowed teeth as he surveys Phillip again, and Barnum uncoils.

 

“I am quite surprised to see you here, Mr. Harper,” he grits out, and Phillip's eyebrows ride higher at his tone.

 

“Oh, been following you in the papers, Phinny.” The nickname has Phillip's brows ascend almost to his hairline. “Read all about you and your...” another look at Phillip that has Barnum grinding his teeth, “partner here. Finally found myself in the city, figured I would pay you a visit. Long overdue, in my estimation.”

 

Barnum says nothing, just holds Harper's stare evenly. The silence stretches on until Phillip, shifting nervously, ventures, “And how did you two know each other, again?”

 

Harper laughs low, smirks. “Oh, Phinny and I go way back. Guess we were partners of a sort, back before you came into the picture, Phillip.” Phillip looks at Barnum, utterly perplexed.

 

“Mr. Harper and I worked on the railroad together, Phillip.” He says his partner's name softly, wants to rescue it from Harper's snapping consonants. “That was many years ago.”

 

“Yup.” Harper clucks. “But experiences like that, they never really leave a man, do they, Phinny? Just become a part of him.”

 

“A small part,” Barnum counters.

 

“Depends on the man, I suppose.” Harper grins widely at Barnum, then shakes his head. “Well, just wanted to catch up a mite with you, Phinny. I'll leave you to it. Maybe see you around, hmm?”

 

Harper turns to leave. “Phillip,” he nods at the younger man, rolls the name around his tongue. “Mighty pleased to make your acquaintance,” he says as he leaves, shutting the office door quietly behind him.

 

Barnum and Phillip stand in silence a moment, Phillip next to his desk, Barnum stiff behind his own.

 

“PT?” Phillip asks, voice soft and so damned concerned Barnum has to _move_.

 

“We're running low on animal feed. See if you can't get Smithwicks to up next month's order. I'm going to check on the new costumes,” he barks out, and doesn't meet Phillip's eyes as he stalks from the office.

 

* * *

 

Barnum manages to avoid Phillip for the rest of the day, hears from O'Malley that the younger man has gone to the office of Smithwicks & Harp Distribution himself to negotiate a better price for a larger order. Barnum spares a thought to pity the poor accounts clerk who is finding himself the subject of Phillip Carlyle's resolute, inexorable haggling. Barnum himself spends most of the day sorting through the new costume materials and sketching outfits for each of the performers.

 

He remembers Deng telling him once that she considered red a lucky color – he quite agrees – and is sorting through bolts of cloth and debating if a crimson bolero will impede her throwing when he hears someone approach from behind.

 

He jerks up a little too quickly, grazing his head on the crate's lid with a curse.

 

“Jesus, PT, are you alright?” _Just Phillip,_ his mind supplies, and he works to slow his heartbeat and calm his breathing.

 

“Are you alright?” Phillip repeats.

 

“I'm fine, Phillip,” he replies, rubbing his head.

 

“You sure? You look...” Phillip fumbles for a moment, “distracted.”

 

“Did you get everything sorted with the feed?” He deflects quickly.

 

“Yes.” But Phillip, far too used to Barnum's dissembling, is not so easily deterred. “PT...earlier...in your office...” Barnum stiffens as Phillip continues. “He called you Phinny?”

 

And of all the things Phillip could have asked, that Barnum was afraid he would, that at least is one thing about which he can spin an answer, lightning quick. “Ah, well, I was a younger man then, and Phineas being such a mouthful, especially for the louts they hired on to build the tracks...”

 

Phillip tilts his head. “What was wrong with PT?” He considers the matter further. “How many names do you need?” Then, finally, “Wait. Why am I the only one here who calls you PT?”

 

At that Barnum finally grins. “Because you are a singularly unique man, Phillip.”

 

Phillip looks at him evenly. “Should _I_ call you Phinny?”

 

Barnum's smile vanishes. “Not unless you want to be the next person to get strapped to Deng's board,” he mutters as he walks away, missing Phillip's grimace.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Damn it boy, hold that bolt there...no _there!_ You wanna lose a finger here, son?”

 

The boy clears the sweat and dirt and hair from his eyes with a forearm, shifts his grip on the spike.

 

“Better. We got a barrel full of these to finish before break, so keep it moving. And for Lord's sake _watch your hands!”_

 

Spike set, the boy pulls another from the barrel, readies it for the hammer.

 

“I know it's hard work, boy, but good work makes a good man. Focus on this one here. Then on the next.”

 

The boy nods up at the grizzled man beside him, braces his back against the blaring sun, sucks in a mouthful of dusty prairie air, and sets himself to his task.

 

 _Just one more,_ he tells himself, and then, _just one more._ _Just one more._

 

 


	2. That Kind of Darkness

It's a week before Barnum sees Harper again. That eternally optimistic part of him – that just kept throwing itself at every new challenge, ran with every new idea, despite his seemingly endless failures – can almost believe the visit a fluke, even a dream.

 

But after the Thursday afternoon show, he is outside the tent, shaking hands and bidding the crowds farewell, when he stands up from the crouch he'd dropped into to tell a young boy – dark hair, bright blue eyes like Phillip's, but a much quicker smile – that the best way to teach the horses to dance is to make it more fun for them than anyone else, and finds himself eye to eye with the man.

 

“Phinny!” Harper greets, and Barnum notes they're nearly of a height, wonders why it still feels like the other man is towering over him.

 

“Mr. Harper,” he returns evenly. “What are you doing here?”

 

“Oh, just came to take in a show, Phinny. Boy, you were something else in there, you, and all your animals, and your...performers, didya call them?”

 

“Yes,” Barnum clips out. “Our performers are exceptionally talented.”

 

“Exceptionally something!” Harper snickers, and Barnum's shoulders square.

 

“Did you need something, Mr. Harper?”

 

Harper laughs again, that jarring, grating sound, and reaches out a hand. “No, just wanted to congratulate you on an... _exceptional_ performance.” Barnum unthinkingly lifts his hand to shake Harper's, is only mildly startled when the other man pulls him in to speak lowly into his ear.

 

“And to make sure our arrangement is still in place. Wouldn't want you thinking now that you're high and mighty you can go back on your word.” Barnum can't even summon up a response before Harper leans back, surveys Barnum's ringmaster's outfit.

 

“Bright red, eh? It's a good color on you, Phinny.” Harper smiles widely, tips his cap, and walks away.

 

Barnum turns his head slightly to watch the other man leave, and curses when he sees Phillip standing several yards away, looking directly at him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“PT!” Phillip calls after him as Barnum stalks into their office, throws his hat into the corner and starts wrenching off his coat.

 

“PT!” Phillip tries again as he makes the office, closes the door behind him. “What's gotten into you?”

 

“Into me? Nothing, Phillip, just need to get to Caroline's performance.” Barnum pulls his right arm out of the coat, left arm still stuck.

 

“But you said you would have plenty of time to make it there after the show, even thought you might have a chance to go over that proposal from –” Phillip reaches to help Barnum out of his sleeve, but the older man yanks his arm away.

 

“Well, I misspoke then,” he snaps as he finally tugs the sleeve free, hears the sound of stitches tearing from the force of his pull. He tosses the coat at his desk, makes no move to pick it up when it slides off the surface to the ground.

 

“Very well,” Phillip starts, “but we owe them an answer by tomorrow afternoon and – ”

 

“Then give them an answer already, Phillip!” The younger man freezes, blinks at Barnum owlishly. “You do own half the show, I'm sure you can make one or two decisions on your own.” Barnum turns away from Phillip, but not before he sees _that_ look flash across Phillip's face, one he doesn't want to name, and he shuts down the part of his mind that offers up _gutted_ before he can process the thought.

 

“I'll see you tomorrow,” he calls out, marginally softer, as he leaves, and as he's shutting the office door behind him he sees Phillip stoop to carefully pick up the discarded coat.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Heard another camp got hit, just outside Pine Bluffs.”

 

“Damn Sioux bastards.”

 

“Ain't the Sioux we ought be worried about, it's Durant's skull breakers.”

 

“He keeps this up, be no one left to build the blasted tracks...”

 

The boy perched near the fire listens closely but says nothing, spoons his food into his mouth as quickly as he can. The older fellow who the workers refer to by no name other than Colonel sits down next to him with a grunt.

 

“You pay that scuttlebutt no mind, boy. We're here to do a job, and we'll do it, take our pay, and then go back to better things.” The man takes a few bites of his own food, pauses to scratch his gray, grizzled beard. “You got a better thing to go back to, boy?”

 

The boy's spoon stops halfway to his mouth, and he things of long, bright blonde hair, a quick smile, eyes twinkling with laughter. He takes a bite, meets the Colonel's eyes for a moment before dipping his head.

 

“Good. Good. You just keep thinking about that, won't have nothing to worry about.” They both look up sharply at a harsh laugh from a jackal-faced man with dark hair and cold eyes.

 

“Last I checked, Colonel, good thoughts and wishful thinking ain't things that'll get a railroad built. Blood will. Some of ours, but mostly theirs.”

 

The Colonel scoffs. “Blood may be what wins a war, but it won't win the peace.”

 

The other man laughs, inky eyes glaring in the firelight. “And what use you got for peace, _Colonel?”_ He snorts, spits at the ground next to the boy before leaving the circle around the flames.

 

The Colonel sighs. “Steer clear of men like that, boy. That kind of darkness will sap the light out of everything it touches.”

 

The boy just nods, returns to the last of his meal, watches the logs burn down.

 

 


	3. All We All Are

Phillip doesn't say anything about Harper for a few days, and Barnum can almost convince himself his partner is content to let it be. He and Charity are having coffee on the veranda in the morning after the girls have left for school when the other shoe drops.

 

“I heard you had an unexpected visitor at the circus, Phineas.”

 

Barnum curses under his breath as he raises his cup to his mouth and takes a sip. “Oh?” He asks, innocent as a lamb, furiously calculating when Phillip would have gotten a minute to talk to Charity alone.

 

“Yes. Someone from your days on the railroad?”

 

“Oh yes, we worked together for a while. Odd fellow. Wanted to know if we were hiring. Don't think he's suited for the ring, but we can always use men to muck the stalls.” He replies brightly.

 

Charity gives him a level stare. “You never told me much about your time on the railroad.”

 

“Sweltering when it wasn't frigid. Dusty. Lots of wind. And grass.”

 

Charity doesn't blink. “Phillip said his visit left you rather unsettled.”

 

Barnum scowls. “Phillip has enough problems of his own. He doesn't need to go around implying I have any.”

 

Charity sets her cup down with a hard clink, drums her fingernails on the handle.

 

“You know Phillip,” Barnum amends. “Worries that the sun will stop rising in the east one of these days.”

 

“He's worried about _you,_ Phin,” Charity sighs.

 

Barnum smiles. “That's just his job as my partner.”

 

Charity leans forward. “It's not a bad thing to have people who worry about you. And I suspect he'd be even more worried if he knew today was the third time in a row you'd woken up in the middle of the night and not come back to bed.”

 

Barnum stands, picks up his empty cup. “Just ideas for some of the new acts keeping me up. Phillip doesn't need to worry about me.” He leans down to kiss Charity's cheek. “And neither do you. I'll see you tonight at the gala,” he calls out as he pulls open the ornate French doors and enters his home.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Barnum is two glasses of champagne into the night's gala – though he'd prefer it to be many more – when he can bear no more of Mr. Cooke's stories of his game hunts in the Transvaal, or Mr. Forepaugh's inane questions about the circus troupe, and gently pulls Charity from her conversation with Mrs. Sells.

 

“I'm just going to grab some air, Charity. I'll be right back.”

 

“You had better. You abandon me at another one of these functions and you'll be sleeping in the lion pen.” Charity coyly takes a drink of her champagne, and Barnum is fairly certain he's not the only one who relies on a little liquid courage to get through events like this.

 

Barnum raises his eyebrows. “I think I'd prefer the divan in my office.”

 

Charity smiles at him. “No, dear, then where would Phillip sleep?”

 

“He could try sleeping in his own bed.” Barnum chuckles.

 

“Well, now you're just being ridiculous, Phin.” Barnum eyes her nearly empty glass, wonders if it might be more than champagne in that flute.

 

“Then I shall endeavor to return before Mrs. Sells tries to engage you in a debate about the appropriate length of the table cloth at her next benefit luncheon.” Charity just rolls her eyes, takes another sip, and returns to her conversation.

 

Barnum steps out into the mild New York night, hands in his pockets, and watches the carriages pass for several minutes. Maudlin as his thoughts have been the past few weeks, he is hardly surprised when an unwelcome voice beckons him from the nearest street corner.

 

“Don't tell me you're tired of the high life, Phinny.” Barnum looks over, doesn't move. “You know, I ever got into a shindig like that, I wouldn't be in a hurry to leave.” Harper chuckles wistfully. And Barnum can almost laugh at that too, at how closely it mirrors his erstwhile thinking.

 

“Have you taken to lurking outside every society gala now, Harper?”

 

“Only the ones where I might run into you, Phinny.” Harper smiles.

 

Barnum does not. “What do you want?”

 

“Like I said, just want to make sure we still understand each other.”

 

“I certainly won't claim to understand you, Harper, but our agreement stands.”

 

“Good. Good. Hate to think what it could mean for you if it didn't. Looks like you got quite a bit to lose these days.” Barnum can't help but glance back at the doors he walked out of a few minutes ago.

 

“Yes, sir,” Harper goes on, “pretty little wife, nice circus, all these... _exceptional_ people you're associating with...”

 

Barnum bristles at that. “God help me, Harper, you come near my family...”

 

Harper laughs. “And you'll what, Phinny? I know your limits, after all.”

 

“No, I'm not sure you do.”

 

And God, what Barnum would do to wipe _that_ smirk off Harper's face. “What are you so afraid of, Phinny? What I'll do if I get near 'em?” Harper's smile drops, and he turns to walk away, calling back over his shoulder, “Or are you scared of what I might tell 'em?”

 

Barnum watches until he can no longer make out Harper's figure on the darkened street, then turns to reenter the radiant glare of the gala.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“What the hell was that?” The Colonel shouts at the dark-eyed man leaning languidly against one of the rail cars.

 

“Just doin' what need be done.” He grins wolfishly, rubbing at a stain on his shirt.

 

“Sure as hell didn't need to be done like that!” The Colonel yells, red-faced.

 

The boy, watching from a nearby open car, leans back, can't remember the Colonel ever raising his voice before.

 

“Well what's done is done, isn't it, Colonel _?_ ” The tall man asks coldly. “ 'sides, ain't you tired of losing battles?” He chuckles as he walks away.

 

The Colonel braces an arm against the car, draws in a few deep breaths, and the boy surprises himself by voicing his thoughts out loud.

 

“He said they were just soulless savages.” The Colonel looks even more shocked than the boy at his words. But not only shocked, angry too. He stalks to the opening, looks the boy dead in the eye.

 

“Always easier when you decide the people you're fighting against ain't people at all.” The Colonel's eyes get hazy, distant. “Wish I'd figured that out myself earlier.” He takes another breath. “But they're only looking out for their own. They're just people, at the end of the day, boy. That's all we all are, at the end of everything, no matter how we look or what we think.”

 

The boy can only nod at that, though he doesn't believe it. Not yet.

 


	4. The Godless

 

Some days later, he and Phillip are changing out of their ringmaster's outfits in the office after the evening show when Phillip looks up at Barnum.

 

“Oh,” he remarks, “I ran into Mr. Harper yesterday.”

 

Barnum isn't sure if what he's feeling in his blood is fire or ice. Either way, it burns.

 

“What?” He snaps as he grabs Phillip's elbow, so overcome he misses the other man's wince. “”What did he say?”

 

Phillip looks startled by his reaction before he draws himself together. “We only spoke for a few minutes, PT. He just asked a few questions about the circus, how successful it was, how we met.”

 

“What did you tell him?” Barnum asks, voice a shade below a shout, squeezing Phillip's elbow tighter.

 

“Jesus, PT!” Phillip responds as he shakes his arm, and Barnum relaxes but does not release his grip. “I just told him the basics, nothing you couldn't get from a show bill!”

 

“And what did you say...what about how we met?”

 

“Oh, that...well, that we were both in show business, running in the same circles, you know...” And Barnum would laugh at the absurdity of that but he needs another answer desperately.

 

“Phillip, what did he tell you?”

 

“About what?”

 

“Anything!”

 

“Could you be a little more specific, PT?”

 

“Damn it Phillip, did he...did he say anything about...our time on the railroad?

 

“What? No, why would he – ”

 

And Barnum has another vital question.“Where did you...run into him, anyway?”

 

“In the street, actually. Between my apartment and here.” And then a new, insidious thought hits him: does Harper know where Phillip lives? How he gets to the circus? How else could he have –

 

“PT...PT?” Barnum finally realizes Phillip is calling him, looks at the other man's eyes, sees utter confusion and not a little bit of worry there. “Seriously, PT, what on _earth_ has gotten into you?” Barnum slowly releases Phillip's elbow, shakes his head.

 

“Nothing, Phillip,” he replies. The younger man's eyebrows rise and Barnum is dead certain that his partner is moments away from throwing the nearest object at him, knows he has to say _something_ before Phillip boils over. “It's just...a part of my life I thought I had left behind.”

 

And that does the trick, because the frustration melts from Phillip's face, is replaced by a look so concerned it shames Barnum.

 

“What's really going on here, PT?” There are a few seconds where Barnum very nearly, finally, in the face of Phillip's worry, resigns himself to sharing the whole sordid story, but that is naturally when O'Malley beats down the door to tell them there's a crowd of protesters, largest he's ever seen, heading in from the docks.

 

 

* * *

 

“How is your head?”

 

“Smfine.”

 

“What?”

 

“'nttoobad.”

 

Barnum rolls his eyes as he walks over to the divan in the circus office, where Phillip is stretched out, pressing a wet cloth to his face. Barnum takes the hand that is holding the rag, pulls it back gently. “What?”

 

“Said it's fine.”

 

Barnum peers at his partner, at the bloody brow, the swelling eye, the bruises starting to blossom on his cheek, the split lip. “Yes, it looks wonderful.”

 

Phillip just shrugs a shoulder, sniffs wetly. Barnum taps his fingers against the inside of the younger man's wrist. “Next time some lily-livered protester decides to hit you in the head with a spare piece of lumber, please do duck, Phillip.”

 

Phillip tries to raise his eyebrows but stops with a wince. “Y' always said I had a thick skull.”

 

Barnum sighs. “Really, Phillip, are you alright? You're not seeing double, are you?”

 

“Two PT Barnums in this office? Heaven help me.”

 

“Must have hit you harder than I thought...”

 

“PT. I'm fine.” Phillip meets Barnum's gaze, at least with the eye that isn't starting to swell shut. “Y' don't need to worry.” And Barnum would probably worry less if Phillip's good eye could focus on him for more than a few seconds, or if the younger man could speak without slurring.

 

“I'm your partner, Phillip, it's my job to worry about you.”

 

“Hmm,” Phillip agrees meaningfully, “ _is_ a partner's job, huh?”

 

“Walked right into that one, didn't I?”

 

“ 'bout as hard as I walked into that board. Think he should try out for the Knickerbockers? S'good swing. Lotsa power. We gonna talk to the Pinkertons 'bout security? I think –” Phillip trails off when Barnum squeezes his wrist and takes the cloth from his lax hand.

 

“Mr. Carlyle, you are a sight,” Barnum mutters as he dabs at a smear of blood along Phillip's jaw.

 

“S'just they had Deng on the _ground_ ,” Phillip says lowly when Barnum is finished.

 

“I know, Phillip. And then _you_ were on the ground and...I...” Phillip flexes his wrist in Barnum's grip.

 

“Everyone's fine, PT,” he asserts. “ 'cept maybe you...”

 

“I'm fine,” Barnum growls, wondering how many times he can utter that assertion in the space of a few weeks.

 

Phillip twists his hand until he is the one gripping Barnum's wrist, and Barnum can only blink at the sleight of hand.

 

“Are you, though, PT?” Barnum can't find any words, startled by Phillip's sudden coherence. Phillip goes on, “Whatever it is, you know I won't...I mean, the things _I've_ told _you_...”

 

“I...” Barnum stutters, and Phillip squeezes his wrist this time.

 

“Whenever you're ready, PT. S'what you told me...was you, wasn't it? You told me...”

 

Barnum smiles softly. “You should know better than to listen to anything I say, Phillip.” Phillip mutters something Barnum can't quite catch, so he leans in closer. “What was that?”

 

“Told me...nothing anyone here wouldn't do for you. Nothing I wouldn't do for you.” Phillip looks at him woozily. “For you, PT.”

 

Barnum takes a sharp breath and surveys his partner. “I think we should get you home, Phillip.”

 

“s'fine. Can sleep here.” Phillip mumbles. Barnum stares at him. “ 'lright, I'll walk home.” Barnum narrows his eyes. “Hmm, take a carriage.” Barnum relents and shifts the other man to sit upright.

 

“ _We_ will take a carriage back to your apartment.” He gently levers Phillip to his feet, steadies the younger man's swaying form. “And first thing tomorrow _I_ will send a telegram to the Pinkerton office.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

The boy is sitting at the open door of a rail car again, but his view this time is very different. Bright blue, unbroken sky, over plains of wind-whipped sage grass stretching out to a far horizon. In the near distance, bare-chested men on piebald horses are shrieking, the ponies keeping pace with the chugging locomotive.

 

The boy sees one of the faint figures reach out an arm – pointing at him? – and then feels a hand grab at the back of his collar, yanking him away from the car opening a sparse moment before a bullet splinters the wood where his head had just been.

 

“Damn it, kid! The hell you thinking?”

 

The boy turns as the cold-eyed man drops his grip, says nothing.

 

“Ain't anyone ever tell you not to give those bastards a nice pale target to shoot at?” The man shoves the boy backwards onto his elbows. “Well?” The boy shakes his head mutely.

 

The man leans back, swaying with the rocking train. “'Course they want us dead, after what we done to 'em.” He looks at the shaft of sunlight along the car's floor, runs a hand through his dark hair, and turns back to the boy. “You want to keep that head atop your shoulders, you'd best avoid antics like that.” He tilts his head to the car's opening, to the whoops and wails that are slowly falling behind them.

 

“Those there are the godless, but they have the devil's own aim.”

 


	5. As Long As You Need

“I'm fairly certain we're going to have to do something about our new lion tamer,” Phillip remarks as he strolls into the office a few days later. Barnum looks up at him, surprised.

 

“ _I'm_ fairly certain I told you not to show your face here until Saturday at the earliest,” Barnum replies, and what a face it is. Phillip's eye is no longer swollen shut, but he has a dark shiner to match the bruises marching down his cheek. The gash along his eyebrow is still red and livid, as is the wound on his lip. “You look terrible.”

 

“I feel _fine,_ ” Phillip retorts, and there's that damn word again. “Besides, what was I going to do at home?”

 

“Rest,” Barnum suggests. “Recover. Recuperate. Relax in the sun. Put your feet up. Watch the world go by from your window.”

 

Phillip gingerly lowers himself into his chair. “I was going mad as a March hare, PT. Besides, you know I don't...” he studies his desk, traces the wood grain slowly with one finger, “do too well with...idle time.”

 

“Yes, I know,” Barnum sighs wistfully. At Phillip's hollow expression he continues, a bit brighter, “Neither do I, for that matter. So, what trouble has Mr. Rhodes caused today?”

 

Phillip grimaces. “Oh, wants his own dressing room, even though the rest of the performers are willing to share. And this morning he stormed out of the mess tent when Anne and WD had the _audacity_ to sit down at the same table.”

 

“How did they take it?” Barnum asks.

 

“The patience of Job, those two. I don't think they expect any better.” Phillip shrugs sadly. “Though if he does it again I'm not sure if Anne or WD is going to hit him first.”

 

“Has anyone talked to him about it?” Barnum scowls.

 

“Not this latest incident, no. I had mentioned to him last week that we regard _everyone_ at the circus as equal. That we judge people based on their behavior, not their appearance. You know, radical ideas such as that.” Phillip shoots Barnum a self-deprecating smile. “I'm not sure he was very intimidated by me, though.”

 

Barnum laughs lowly. “Well, that is only because he has never seen you negotiate for a larger discount on bulk orders from the lumberyard.”

 

“True,” Phillip chuckles and rubs his jaw. “Although, I wonder if I look a sight more imposing now.” He gestures to his battered face.

 

Barnum winces. “I'm not certain 'imposing' is the word I would use, Phillip.” At the younger man's dour glare he continues, “How about _I_ talk to Mr. Rhodes this time about what we here at the circus consider acceptable?”

 

“And if that doesn't work?” Phillip asks.

 

“Then we give Lettie a shot.” He and Phillip share a smile. “Ought to take care of that problem right quick”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The evening finds Barnum at a place he did not expect.

 

He had tracked the circus's prickliest lion tamer down earlier that afternoon. Rhodes had been less than impressed with Barnum's gentle lecture about the circus being an island of civility in an increasingly uncivil world. He was also not phased by Barnum's sterner warning about the consequences of bringing that incivility into the oasis of the show.

 

But, third time a charm, when Barnum offered to buy the other man a drink or two at the troupe's favorite tavern, employing every bit of his nearly extra foot of height over Rhodes to imply the overture was not optional, the shorter man had agreed. One stilted drink became two, became three, became several more for the increasingly mellow lion tamer, though not for Barnum (a trick he mastered long ago).

 

And somewhere between the fifth and sixth pint of ale, Rhodes had given Barnum a glimpse of his too-familiar story: disapproving parents, unmet high society expectations, a lovely lady friend who had scorned him when she realized he would not be joining his father's prestigious law practice. Then the man's wonder when a small circus had appeared in his town, jugglers and clowns and all those magnificent _animals!_

 

When Barnum returns that openness with a story or two of his own – how he'd found many of the performers, how the first trainer they'd hired on hadn't lasted a day before he'd run from the pens shrieking, Rhodes nearly falls off his stool laughing.

 

Barnum deposits him into the eager hands of a small group of performers – Constantine and Fedor and a few others – who had _conveniently_ just so happened to be drinking at a table in the back themselves. There's a tense moment when Rhodes asks Fedor if _he_ knows any tricks, but bless his heart the young man just responds with a series of backflips, and that has Rhodes and the others in stitches.

 

Barnum sends the group off with an admonition to return home, which they meet with put-upon conviction – _right back, of course, no stopping at any other taverns, or seeing if that new show at the place in the Bowery really has ladies who can –_ and watches them stumble into the city night with a smirk.

 

He returns to his spot at the now quiet counter, the familiar bartender giving him a knowing look before he steps into the back room to give Barnum some privacy, leaving a bottle and a glass behind. Barnum sips his whiskey slowly – no need for shots here, not anymore – and just enjoys the stillness, the opportunity to be alone with his thoughts for a while.

 

And, oh, what he has to think about. The thousand and one concerns of running the circus, though he welcomes most of those. How Caroline is getting on with the girls in her ballet classes, and how Helen is doing in her lessons. Charity's enduring efforts to repair her relationship with her parents, and to bring them and her husband closer together.

 

Then this business with Harper, and Charity's knowing stare when the topic of the railroad came up. Phillip's naked concern in the wake of Harper's visits to the show, and the fact that Harper had tracked the young man down, however innocuous their conversation had been. And then the reappearance of the protesters, the outright panic he had felt seeing that board collide with Phillip's head.

 

And God, for all his assurances to the contrary, his partner looked _terrible_ in their office this morning. But Barnum's ability to persuade him to make healthier decisions, to leave the demons of his past firmly in the past, is so terribly limited. He recalls Phillip's words just a few nights ago in their office, and it strikes him then that Phillip must feel something similar, the utter helplessness of being unable to solve someone's problems, to make it _better_.

 

He just _can't_ tell Phillip this, though, can't expose his sorrow, and his shame, doesn't want _that_ to be what Phillip thinks every time he sees Barnum. He wants to chose how to tell his own story, and not let the dark chapters of his life be the only ones that matter.

 

But, perhaps more than anything, he does not want it to be Harper he sees sitting beside him when he glances up at the mirror behind the bar.

 

“Phinny. What are we drinking?”

 

Barnum numbly reaches over the bar for another tumbler, pours the other man a full glass of whiskey before he opens his mouth.

 

“What are you doing here, Harper?”

 

“Just looking to wet my whistle.”

 

“Bullshit,” Barnum snarls as he turns to look at the other man. “I told you our agreement held. You don't need anything else from me, and I for damn sure don't need anything from you. So what is it you want? Money?”

 

Harper's insufferable grin fades at that. “Don't need your damn money, Barnum. Don't need anything from you.”

 

“Then why the hell do you keep turning up like a bad penny everywhere I go?” Barnum asks coolly.

 

“Why you?” Harper asks sharply, and Barnum can only look at him. “All of us working on the railroad those long years, why are you the one who ends up with everything? Nice family, shiny circus, dewy-eyed little greenhorn to worship the ground you walk on? Some of us are just cursed, but seems you get endless second chances.”

 

Harper's scowl deepens at Barnum's low chuckle. “That funny to you, Barnum? You think you're better than me, you worked harder than me?”

 

“I certainly hope I am a better man than you, Harper. I worked plenty hard, but so do most, I suppose. I guess the rest is just luck...and surrounding myself with good people.” Barnum thinks of Charity's patience at every misjudgment, the girls' enthusiasm for every new adventure, Phillip's perseverance in the face of his own doubt, and Lettie and Charles and the others forgiving all his wrongs, among other things.

 

“You think you deserve any of the things you got?” Harper asks hotly, and that's not a question Barnum can answer.

 

“He does.” Barnum and Harper jerk apart, look up. Because there is Phillip, of course, exactly where Barnum doesn't want him, never expected him.

 

Harper slowly shifts off his stool, prowls over to Phillip, glares down at the younger man. Phillip, bruised and battered, doesn't flinch.

 

“That so, Phillip? Yet I heard was him that nearly destroyed everything he had. Burned your little circus to the ground. And by the looks of you, those troubles ain't over.”

 

“No, Mr. Harper, it was fear and small-mindedness that nearly destroyed the circus.” Phillip replies coldly, and for the first time, Barnum sees something of the younger man's father in him, that ice in his eyes. “And only Mr. Barnum's imagination, drive, and resolve that brought it back.” Then something far softer and fiercer than anything the elder Carlyle could ever manage, in his words and his bearing.

 

But Harper only snorts at the shorter man and looks back to Barnum for a long moment. The showman is shaking, white knuckling the counter with one hand, the other clenched into a tight fist on his thigh.

 

“What's he paying you, boy, to carry his water for him?” Harper scoffs.

 

“Nothing,” Phillip replies calmly. “And I would carry it until my feet bled.”

 

That puts Harper back on his heels. He locks eyes with Barnum for a second, just long enough for Barnum to marvel at how _old_ the other man looks in the low light of the bar, even though he knows they're separated by no more than a decade. Harper must see some softening in Barnum's countenance, because his eyes widen before he turns and stalks out of the bar.

 

Phillip watches him leave, then takes the seat on Barnum's other side. They sit in silence, neither making a move to take a drink. After what feels like hours, Barnum shifts to regard Phillip.

 

“How did you...”

 

“Constantine came to the office when those merry-makers returned to the circus. Said you were here, drinking by yourself.” He eyes Barnum's half-empty glass. “And maybe I've been there a time too many myself.”

 

“Impeccable timing as always, Mr. Carlyle,” Barnum snorts.

 

“I wish you would tell me what's going on,” Phillip replies, a touch crossly. When Barnum does nothing, just looks into his drink, Phillip continues. “Haven't I shared enough with you?”

 

And that gives Barnum pause, because Phillip certainly has, from the story of those angry scars across his back, to how dark the world looked from the bottom of a bottle of whiskey, to the feeling of waking up too many mornings with the taste of ash on his tongue.

 

“Yes, well, this is not something worth sharing, trust me.”

 

“I do trust you, PT. Would you trust me, though? Just a little more?”

 

That cuts Barnum to the bone, because Phillip's fidelity through this entire situation – through _everything_ – has been nothing but steadfast.

 

“I do, Phillip. I do. And I will. I promise. I just...tonight...” Barnum swallows, blinks suddenly misty eyes.

 

“Do you remember, after the fire, when we were setting up down by the docks?” Phillip asks softly, staring at his own reflection in the mirror behind the bar. “And I was still...recovering, and nearly killing myself with work, what you said? You said that if I needed to work, you would let me work as much as I wanted, but as soon as I got to the point where I wasn't doing anything but punishing myself, you would drag me away, kicking and screaming, if need be.”

 

Barnum chuckles at that, remembers the conversation well. Remembers his exhaustion, and frustration, but more than anything his overwhelming _concern_ for Phillip.

 

“Well, PT,” Phillip continues, taking his partner's laughter as affirmation, “you want to bury this, want to pretend it's not happening if you think that's best, I can't stop you. But I swear to God, if you keep beating yourself up about it, whatever it is...” Phillip shakes his head. “Damn it PT, I don't know what I'll do. I don't know what I can do. Except just sit here, next to you. For as long as you need.”

 

And he sits there for a very long time.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're over half-way through - thanks for making it to this point. Please let me know what you think so far!


	6. To Our Graves

“Too far, this time, you and your boys have gone too far!” The Colonel shouts as he strides into the empty barn a few of the workers have set themselves up in, looking every inch the military man he once was.

 

“Savages.” The dark-haired man scoffs. “Got what they had coming.” The boy shifts in his bedroll, looks around the barn. The rest of the men are outside near the fire, too keyed up by the day's events to do much other than drink and try to count the stars.

 

“Savages?” The Colonel asks, shaking his head in disbelief. “And that ranch hand? You going after anything that don't look like you, I guess I expect nothing less, but what the hell wrong did he do you?”

 

The other man stands up slowly, jackal-grin on his face. “Associating with the enemy, that one. 'Less you believe that pretty little thing he was sweet on had a drop of Spanish blood in her. 'Sides, was him that came after us first.”

 

“Don't make it right...” The Colonel gapes, and for the first time the boy sees the revolver at his side. The lanky man sees it too, stops laughing. The Colonel raises it, points it at the center of the other man's chest.

 

The man stares, starts shaking. “Didn't think you still knew how to aim that, Colonel.” He says tremulously.

 

They stand there for a long time before the Colonel lowers his weapon. “Ain't gonna be that man, no matter how much you deserve it. But you can be damn sure any law that there is out here is gonna know what you done.” He holsters his gun, turns to walk out into the night.

 

The man shifts then, and the boy sees the glint of lantern light on the mean blade in his hand. The boy opens his mouth, but no words come out.

 

“Damn it, old man, let's talk about this like civilized folk!” The man shouts.

 

The Colonel turns around, sees the blade, and steps in front of the other man. “You gonna do me like you did them, son? You think you got the nerve, come after someone in cold blood when he's looking right at you?”

 

“Now listen,” the cold-eyed man nervously waves the blade in the Colonel's face, “ain't no reason this has to end any way other than all us walking out of here just fine.”

 

“You don't threaten a man with a weapon you ain't prepared to use, boy,” and the Colonel reaches out for the hilt of the knife, wraps his hand around the other's to pull it away.

 

The boy watches the Colonel and the man struggle over the knife, leaps up to pull the blade away from where it is hovering over the Colonel's chest. The three men grapple for the knife before the boy's sharp tug sends him and the dark-haired man backwards to the floor, Colonel tumbling after.

 

The boy gasps as the Colonel falls squarely on him. The man grunts as he lands hard on the ground next to them.

 

They lay there for a moment, panting, before the Colonel pushes himself off the boy, flips onto his back. The boy pats his chest, holds his fingers in front of his face to see the dark gleam of blood in the flickering light.

 

The Colonel wheezes softly, and the boy and the man look over to see the buffalo horn hilt rising out of his chest, shifting with each pained breath.

 

They watch from the straw on the barn's floor as the Colonel gasps again, once, twice, then no more. The man moves first, crawls over to the Colonel and hunches over him on his knees, hands hovering over the upright blade. He looks into the Colonel's open, empty eyes, and calls softly, brokenly, “Damn it, old man.”

 

They sit there in silence, the man unblinking, the boy unmoving, before their eyes slowly meet. The man swallows hard, then stands up to hover over the boy.

 

“You ain't gonna tell a soul now, are you?” The boy shakes his head dumbly. “Good. You and me, Phinny, we take this to our graves. Together. Now grab his legs.”

 

 


	7. These Things We've Done

The next afternoon finds Barnum leaning against a pallet near the docks, watching the passersby.

 

“Mr. Barnum?”

 

Barnum looks up to a young woman, well-dressed, with bright hazel eyes and impeccably coiffed brown hair.

 

“Yes, Miss..?”

 

“I have something for you, Mr. Barnum,” she says, holding out a thin envelope. Barnum takes it with a raised eyebrow. “I understand you requested this information from my employer?”

 

Barnum's eyes widen. “Yes, of course.” He looks down at the envelope, then back up at the woman. “You people work quickly, don't you?”

 

The woman just smiles. “Have a lovely day, Mr. Barnum,” and she walks off, quickly disappearing into the crowds.

 

Barnum carefully opens the envelope, stares at the single piece of paper inside.

 

“So the Pinkertons _do_ employ women. What a marvelous idea...”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Barnum double checks the piece of paper in his hand against the address in front of him. Satisfied, he steps into the decrepit flophouse, snares the first man he sees.

 

“Pardon, do you know where Lucas Harper's room is?” The man gives him a bald stare, says nothing until Barnum drops a coin in his hand. “Second door on the left.”

 

True to his word, when Barnum raps on the flimsy door, it's Harper who pulls it open. Barnum is the first one to speak this time. “Harper.”

 

“Phinny. The hell are you doing here?"

 

“Here to see you, Harper.” He replies evenly.

 

“What, you here to warn me off paying any more visits to you or your circus?” Harper laughs mirthlessly. “You think I'm what they need be afraid of? Judging by your boy's face at that bar, I'm not the thing you ought be scaring off.”

 

Barnum doesn't flinch. “I don't think you ever had designs on my family, or anyone at the circus, Harper.”

 

Harper scoffs.

 

“No, this was always about me,” Barnum continues. “And you. And how our lives might have been different, had that night never happened. How different my life and your life are, now.”

 

“You don't know shit about me, Barnum.”

 

“I know enough, Harper. I know the look that was on your face that night. And I see where you are today.”

 

“Deserved what he got,” Harper mutters, but Barnum notices the tremor in the other man's hand when he says that.

 

“No, he didn't. But there's nothing for that now.”

 

“What, you been putting a lot of thought to it, Phinny? This what you ponder, nights you can't sleep?”

 

“I didn't think about it most nights, until you came back into my life. But, Harper, I daresay you think about it every day.”

 

“Bullshit,” Harper takes a step back into his dingy room.

 

“It was a terrible thing that happened, and I've never stopped regretting it.”

 

“I don't need any fucking absolution, Barnum.”

 

Barnum laughs low at that. “No, you don't. And even if it were for me to grant, I'm not here to offer it. I just have this.” He hands Harper a small envelope. The other man looks at it darkly before snatching it from Barnum's grasp.

 

“The hell's this?”

 

“It's a ticket. A train ticket. Open destination. It'll take you anywhere you want to go, Harper.”

 

“What's this for?” Harper asks as he looks at the ticket in his hand. “You think you got the right to pity me? Or you trying to appease your conscience?”

 

“No, Harper, I'm giving you an opportunity to leave a place you don't belong.”

 

“There's not a place people like you and me belong, Barnum. Not after these things we've done.”

 

“I don't believe that's true anymore, Harper. I hope you stop believing it one day too.” Barnum turns on his heel and leaves the gloomy hallway of the flophouse, glances up to the endless blue sky, and walks into the sunlit street.

 

 


	8. What Kind of Man

Barnum's next stop is, of course, the circus. He walks into the office, where he knows Phillip will be, shuts and locks the door. That latter action has Phillip raising his eyebrows.

 

“I don't think we'll be seeing any of Mr. Harper again,” he declares.

 

“Very well,” Phillip responds from his seat at his desk. “However, you know it's not Mr. Harper I'm concerned about.”

 

“I know.” Barnum smiles sadly. “But I imagine you would still like me to tell you how we met.”

 

Phillip nods slowly. “If you would like to tell me, PT.”

 

Barnum pulls a spare chair around and seats himself in front of Phillip, their knees nearly touching. “I would, Phillip.” And he doesn't just tell him how he and Harper met. He tells him everything.

 

 

* * *

 

  

“So, after that...”

 

“We dragged him out of the barn, into one of the fields. Left him there, in the grass. Made it look like it was an Indian scout that killed him. Had to bury my shirt nearby. It was covered in his...” Barnum swallows hard.

 

“Did...did you know anything about him?”

 

“Not really. He was in the army, of course. I overheard him talk about Mississippi a few times. His favorite fishing spots. I think he was from there, originally. That's about it.”

 

“PT...I...I'm so sorry.”

 

Barnum shakes his head. “Don't be sorry for me. Be sorry for him.”

 

Phillip smiles tremulously. “I can be sorry for both of you.”

 

“Not sure I deserve your sympathy.”

 

“You get it anyway, PT.” Barnum sits still, listening to his own breathing, to Phillip's. “I'm glad you told me, though. Who else...does Charity know?”

 

Barnum shakes his head. “Never told a soul, until now.”

 

“Why didn't you tell her?”

 

And the words come out of Barnum in a torrent. “Because it was all for her! So I could show her, and her family, that I could take care of her. And then we finally had each other, and she gave up so much for me, and I couldn't _tell_ her, couldn't bear it if she looked at me like – ” He stops when he can no longer breathe, when his vision blurs, when Phillip grabs his hand and squeezes hard.

 

“PT, it was an accident. And what happened after, she'll forgive you. You know she will. She loves you.” Phillip squeezes his hand again. “I...we all do, PT.” Barnum just shudders, breathing hard.

 

“Do you really think we're going to judge you because of something that happened when you were a child?” Phillip asks softly.

 

“I was old enough to know the difference between right and wrong. And if you really believe that, why aren't you going around sharing everything that happened to you when _you_ were younger?” Phillip can only wince at that, a blow that strikes true.

 

Barnum laughs bitterly, shakes his head. “I'm sorry, Phillip. That was terrible of me.” They sit in silence for a few moments, before Barnum chuckles, lighter this time. “God, what a pair we make, eh?”

 

Phillip looks up with a small smile. “Maybe we just deserve each other, PT.”

 

Barnum laughs louder at that. “I can think of far worse things I deserve.” Before Phillip can respond he leans closer. “So I'll settle for you any day, Phillip.” And neither of them can really say if that makes them laugh or cry so hard they fall into each other. Maybe they decide it doesn't really matter, in the end.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Barnum tells Charity. She gives him a sad smile, draws him in tight, tells him she loves him, over and over until he starts to believe it.

 

He doesn't tell the girls. Maybe when they're older, if they ever need to hear it, but he desperately hopes they never will.

 

 

* * *

 

 

A week later Phillip comes into the office far earlier than Barnum would have expected and locks the door behind him. That sets Barnum's heart pounding, but Phillip just hands him a folded article from a decades old newspaper.

 

Barnum looks at the headline. “Colonel Eustace Hays Memorialized Today in Biloxi?” He pulls it closer to his face. “Phillip...is this?”

 

“Yes.” Phillip replies. “I did some research. Looked for a Colonel from Alabama who died around that time in the Nebraska Territory. I didn't realize how many men perished building the railroad...” He trails off, searches Barnum's face for a moment, drinking it in. “But I think this is your fellow, PT.”

 

Barnum takes a minute to read the article through. He looks up at Phillip when he thinks he can keep the quiver out of his voice. “But how did you even...”

 

Phillip smiles softly. “Turns out there are a few friendly faces down at _The Herald_. I had help looking through old archives and getting in touch with some of the local papers down south.” Before Barnum can respond, can even think of what he might say, Phillip hands him another piece of paper with a hand-written name and address.

 

Barnum looks at the note. “Mrs. Leslie Lawrence?” He shoots Phillip a quizzical look.

 

Phillip nods. “Colonel Hays was married, but he never had any children. He joined the railroad after consumption took his wife. His wife's sister has passed, but...” Phillip gestures to the paper, “her daughter is still alive out in Omaha. You don't have to, but I just thought...” Phillip's voice wavers this time, “Well, maybe you might want to tell her what kind of man her uncle was.”

 

Barnum can only blink away the moisture collecting in his eyes. It takes him a very long time to find his voice. “I think...Phillip...I think I would like that very much.”

 

Phillip smiles again as he settles at his own desk, watches Barnum take out a fresh sheet of paper.

 

_Dear Mrs. Lawrence,_

 

_Perhaps you've heard of me in Omaha, but if you haven't, my name is Phineas Taylor Barnum. I run a circus here in New York. I hope to someday bring my show out west to your city, and I also hope you'll come see it if I do._

 

_I am not certain how well you knew your uncle, Colonel Eustace Hays, but I had the privilege of working next to him for a time. I would like to tell you a little about him..._

 

 


	9. Watch the Trains Go By

 

“Mr. Rhodes appears to be settling in quite nicely,” Phillip remarks some days later as Barnum approaches him where he is watching the lion tamer put the animals through their paces in the outdoor pen.

 

“Indeed he does.”

 

“And just this morning I saw him sit down with Fedor and WD. He wanted to tell them all about the discovery of a new species of leopard in the Himalayas.”

 

“Bit of a naturalist, Mr. Rhodes.”

 

“I wonder what's behind his sudden change of heart.”

 

“I suppose we all have the capacity for personal improvement, don't we, Phillip?”

 

Phillip looks at him knowingly. “I suppose we do.”

 

“However,” Barnum responds, “I didn't come over here to talk to you about circus business.”

 

“Is there any other kind of business?” Phillip asks, unable to stop a grin from creeping around the edges of his mouth.

 

“Hardly,” Barnum counters. “But, I wanted to tell you I posted that letter to Mrs. Lawrence.”

 

Phillip's face softens. “I hope you hear back from her, PT.”

 

“I do too.” Barnum watches Rhodes and the lions for a minute. “Right now, though...”

 

“Yes?” Phillip prompts when Barnum doesn't continue.

 

“Well, I wanted to go...you know there's this great vantage point, just on the other side of the river. Up on a hill, not too many buildings around. You can see for miles. Most of the tracks into the city run near there. I thought I might go there for a bit...watch the trains go by.”

 

Phillip turns to face Barnum, doesn't say a word.

 

“Could I convince you to join me, Phillip? At least for a little while.”

 

And Phillip just smiles. “I would love to, PT. As long as you need.”

 

Barnum throws an arm over Phillip's shoulders, and they walk out of the circus, away from the docks, to a bluff by the river where they can see the tracks that stretch far past the western horizon, running to lonesome prairies, and wild mountain meadows, and at last the glittering waters of a distant blue ocean.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of the line. What did you think? Liked it, hated it, still a little confused? Any and all comments welcome. 
> 
> Thank you for coming along on this journey. I hope you enjoyed yourselves.


End file.
